


After the Docks

by missingMelbs



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Spoilers, Police Strike of 1923, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingMelbs/pseuds/missingMelbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's thoughts after the end of S1E4 - Death at Victoria Docks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Docks

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing with this, and some others in the same vein, since Murder and Mozzarella. As such, even though it takes place during season 1, there are minor spoilers for season 3. Phryne's comment to Jack at the end of Death at Victoria Docks has always bothered me -- it just seems offensive, though perhaps I'm reading too much into it. Anyway, that's how this came about.

As he left the station, with the paperwork finally completed, Jack was frustrated. Not that this was a new feeling when it came to Phryne Fisher, he mused as he climbed into his motorcar. But he had thought they had begun to trust one another. He had thought they complimented each other fairly well during the case at the Green Mill, even if he didn’t approve of all her methods. He smiled, remembering the mug shots they’d taken when he arrested her for breaking and entering. He started the engine. She had even been the one to figure out the rather ingenious key to how Ben Rodgers had done the deed. He sighed. But then there had been this case with the Latvian anarchists, Jack thought as he put the car in reverse and backed out of his parking spot. On this case he was left feeling they had taken one step back after the two steps forward on their previous case.

He changed gears and began the drive home. Miss Fisher’s meddling was interfering with his constable’s ability to do his job in an unbiased manner — Collins had left the scene of a crime in order to take her home, leaked sensitive information about the automatic weapon the anarchists had, and accepted (and concealed) evidence in exchange for keeping Miss Fisher ‘informed’ about the case, which he had done by ‘letting slip’ that they were headed to the morgue with the victim’s fiancee, allowing Miss Fisher to meet them there and wheedle her way even deeper into the case. The woman seemed to have no qualms about manipulating the naive young man for her own ends. 

Jack turned a corner, heading toward Richmond. Then there was Peter “Smith.” He may not have been directly involved in the bank robbery, may even have helped provide the tip-off, but there was definitely more to him than Jack was being told. Somehow, Jack thought grimly, Jack and his officers had ended up at the wrong bank branch. Maybe it had been an honest mistake in the girl’s translation, but meanwhile, Phryne, Hugh and Mr. “Smith” had managed to find their way to the right branch. According to Miss Fisher’s statement, Collins had wrestled one of the bank robbers for his weapon and used it to wound and disarm another, ending the stand-off. Of course, that didn’t explain that the bullet wound hadn’t matched the gun. He suspected it would match a certain other unregistered weapon he knew of. Still, much as it irked him, it probably was the most defensible chain of events. 

He pulled up in front of his house and sat in the car for a moment, still thinking. Jack also suspected that Miss Fisher was not in the least surprised by Peter “Smith’s” disappearance. It angered him that she had such disregard for her own safety not to mention that of her own maid and his constable. How could she trust a man like Peter “Smith”? She had already been shot at twice before on the case, so she had known full well that these people were dangerous, even without their attempt to kidnap her, and the taking of Miss Williams in her place.

The fact that she had arranged things so Collins came out of it all a hero, even if not solely for Collins’ benefit, had gone a long way toward mollifying Jack, and the arm-twisting she had done with Waddington to end the strike on the docks had reminded him that despite her methods, in the end their aims were usually the same. He had tried to acknowledged that by revealing his participation in the Police strike of 1923, and had had to cover his hurt at her insinuation that he would have sat by and let others fight the battle for him. He’d thought she had a better opinion of him than that, especially after the Green Mill case. By giving her the plates of the incriminating photographs of Charles Freeman and Bobby Sullivan, Jack had been flouting the law, but he happened to agree with her that people shouldn’t be arrested or imprisoned for loving someone. Jack started the car again. He had changed his mind. 

He’d quipped about her not having him pegged just yet, but he’d been stung by her comment. ‘Fence sitter’? His father-in-law certainly would have preferred Jack not be involved in the strike, and truth be told, he knew it was down to him that Jack had been ‘one of the lucky ones’ who kept their jobs. Rosie hadn’t been happy about it either. At the time Jack had thought she was worried about him losing his job, which was understandable. Later he had realized she had probably also been concerned that his involvement would spell an end to any chance of him moving into politics or a higher-ranking position. Jack maneuvered the motorcar onto the street where Strano’s Restaurant was, looking for a parking spot.

But Jack would have been involved regardless, because it had been the right thing to do, despite the rioting and looting that resulted. The Victorian Constabulary were expected to do a dangerous job for less money than officers in the other states, and with less time off. They had no pension, either, which was particularly hard on the families of officers killed in the line of duty. And then there were the spies — a system of spying and tattling supposedly used to maintain discipline among the men. All it really accomplished was undermining the established line of command and causing suspicion and distrust among the ranks when they needed to be able to count on each other to do their jobs effectively. No, Jack had certainly not been a ‘fence sitter,’ he thought as he mounted the stairs to the restaurant and pulled open the front door. 

As Jack made his way into the dining room at Strano’s, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing there. He didn’t have any updates on the case, hadn’t had any in quite some time, and in fact he had visited only a few days ago to give that lack of update. He was there for dinner, of course. After all, he had to eat, and, he thought a touch bitterly, it wasn’t as if he had someone waiting at home for him with dinner on the table. But there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He felt… comfortable here. Almost… at home. Although, truth be told, there was danger in this room too, given the company the Stranos kept — he’d seen Roberto Salvatore here too frequently for his comfort. But that wasn’t why he was here tonight, he reminded himself. Not for duty, just for dinner. 

Vincenzo came to greet him. “Inspector Robinson! You were just here the other night — you have news?” he asked eagerly.

Jack was suddenly embarrassed. “Uh, no. No, I—”

Thankfully, he was saved by the arrival of Concetta. “Inspector! How lovely to see you again!” She kissed both his cheeks in the European way, then took him by the hand to lead him to a table near the foot of the curving staircase. “You see?” she said, smiling, “I save this table just for you, Inspector.” Concetta stepped behind him and took his overcoat by the shoulders, lifting it slightly, and waiting for him to shed the garment. It caught him off guard. It seemed a very intimate gesture. Jack’s overcoat was a protective layer in more ways than the obvious, but he supposed it would be rude of him not to remove it. Carefully, he shrugged it off his shoulders, and she swept it off and folded it over her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She gestured for him to sit, then sat next to him, still holding his overcoat.

Jack cleared his throat, feeling slightly awkward. “Er— Jack,” he said. Concetta started, then tilted her head, puzzled. “It’s not ‘Inspector Robinson’ tonight. It’s ‘Jack,’” he clarified.

Her eyes grew wide for just a moment, then with a thoughtful look she pronounced, “Jack.” It sounded clipped and harsh somehow when she said it. “Jack,” Concetta said again with a touch of a frown. “No. This is not you,” she decided. “You pretend to be hard, but you are not.”

One corner of Jack’s mouth quirked up, proving her point. “John, then,” he said, softly. 

“John,” Concetta said, then smiled her broad, gentle smile. “Gianni!” she announced, delighted now. “Si! Gianni!”

Jack had to chuckle. No one had called him ‘Johnny’ in a very, very long time. And yet, the way Concetta said it, it didn’t sound like a little boy’s name.

“You are here for dinner, then, Gianni?” she asked, letting his new name roll off her tongue like a purr.

“Yes, uh—”

“Concetta, please,” she said, placing her hand over one of his where it rested on the table, and caressing it slightly with her thumb.

He cleared his throat and attempted a smile. “Concetta,” he agreed. “Yes, dinner would be lovely. Thank you. Er— Gratzie.”

Concetta stood, and moved past him, sliding her hand up his arm and squeezing his shoulder gently. Then she stopped, turned, and leaned over his shoulder to pour a glass of wine for him before she returned to the kitchen, leaving his overcoat at the coat check on her way.

The warmth of her soft body leaning against him had caused Jack all sorts of discomfort, even as he had savored it. He wondered briefly if he was imagining the intimacy he had felt in her attentions. Probably. Her family, indeed most of the Italians he had met, were very demonstrative in general. Touching seemed very natural to them. That’s all it was, he reassured himself. Nothing to worry about. And, indeed, as Concetta sat with him off and on while he ate and she worked, there was nothing at all improper in her conduct toward him. So he allowed himself to relax and enjoy conversing with her, learning more about the village where she had grown up, and arming himself for the future with another word or two of Italian. 

The evening passed quickly, and almost before he knew what had happened, Jack found himself still seated in the now-empty dining room, but joined now by Concetta’s family. It was then that he began to feel a bit uncomfortable. He did not want to insult them, but he also did not want to compromise himself. He was still not sure whether Papa Antonio or Vincenzo were involved with the Camorra or not. So he carefully extricated himself as quickly as he politely could, and headed home, still warm from the wine, the food, and the company.


End file.
